CONSOLATION 



ALBION FELLOWS BACON 




CopiglitK?. 



CDPWRIGHT DEPOSm 



To <tAll Who <J)^ourn 



CONSOLATION 

A SPIRITUAL EXPERIENCE 



BY 



/V>^ Albion Fellows^ Bacon 




THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY PRESS 
BOSTON 



^ 



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Copyright 

The Atlantic Monthly Company, 1921 

Albion Fellows Bacon, 1921 



S)CLA661264 

ftPR 13 1922 



/ believe in the life everlasting 



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As children, lost in the dark, are com- 
forted when one cries "I see a light,'' 
so we take cheer and hope from those 
mortals among us who have an assur- 
ance of immortality. 

Then is there not an obligation upon 
those who have this assurance to make 
it known to others who mourn ? I be- 
lieve there is, and, in this belief, have 
written this sketch. 

It is twelve years since the experience 
here recounted, and though I have 
tried again and again to write it, 
driven by the thought that it was self- 
ish to withhold it, now for the first 
time have I been able to bring myself 
to set down the words. It has been 
possible only by leaving sealed those 
pages of grief which, indeed, have no 
place here, as this writing is only for 
consolation. 



CONSOLATION 

I 

The doorbell rang in the night. It 
was toward morning, and cold. We 
sat up and listened. It rang again. 

The children were asleep across the 
hall. Their father went downstairs 
quietly and opened the door. 

Leaning over the rail, I heard him 
talking to a messenger. Then he came 
back upstairs, shaking violently, as 
with a heavy chill, and handed me a 
telegram. 

It read, " Margaret is very ill. Come 
at once." 

We looked at each other in terror and 
bewilderment. She had gone away, 
a few days before, so radiant, and 
seemingly in perfect health. We had 
had letters telling of her happy visit, 
and the plans for the wedding at which 
she was to be bridesmaid. In her 
letters there had been no hint of illness 
or weakness. It seemed impossible 
that in such a short time she could be 



CONSOLATION 



seriously ill. Had there been an acci- 
dent ? Could there be a mistake ? 

I wondered and reasoned, unable to 
accept the message, but weighed down 
with dread forebodings. Her father 
could say nothing, but he looked gray 
and broken, as if the telegram had 
brought news of her death. He told 
me, afterward, that he was convinced 
that was what it meant. 

"Let us pray for her to be well,'* I 
said, after we had turned the heart- 
breaking puzzle over and over. "That 
is all we can do. We have always 
prayed, and the children always get 
well. Perhaps we may get another tele- 
gram by morning, saying she is better." 

And so I actually hoped ; and at last, 
praying, fell asleep. But her father 
could not sleep. I think he lay awake 
till morning, when, in the chill early 
gray dawn, we made his preparations, 
and he left to take the first train. 

Later, I woke the children and told 
them what had happened. They were 
distressed with vague fears, watching 
me with anxious little faces. 



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I went about in a strange, unhappy 
daze, feeling a cold hand clutching my 
heart, imagining her in pain, in fever, 
wondering what the physicians were 
doing for her, longing, in an agony of 
desire and grief, to be with her. I was 
hoping every minute for a telegram 
that would say she was better. 

After some hours a telegram came. 
It announced her death. 

Holding it with trembling fingers, I 
reread it with blurred vision, doubting 
my sight. It brought no conviction, 
simply more bewilderment. It was 
impossible. It was unthinkable. She 
to die ! I did not believe it. I had 
never known anyone so vividly alive. 
Her lithe, slender body, her face, 
alight and radiant with thought, 
seemed to be only an expression of her 
spirit. "Spirit, fire, and dew,'' — so 
I had often thought of her. 

I sat and stared at the telegram, 
stupidly, as one might look at a heavy 
club that had smitten one on the head. 
I know now that the effect it had was 
that of a physical blow. I could not 



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think coherently, but one idea kept 
rising insistently. There was some 
mistake. It might be a trance. I 
sent a hasty telegram by telephone, 
and then another, more explicit and 
urgent. I waited in a state of sus- 
pended life. At last the answer came 
back : • — 

" There was no mistake. Five phy- 
sicians were called.'* 

There was no mistake. Then — 

I could not frame the thought. It 
was like another, heavier blow. My 
brain reeled. Thought seemed to 
stagger, to faint, to rise and fall, 
exactly as it does when recovering 
from an anaesthetic or a blow. I re- 
called the feeling of the surgeon's 
knife, the stabs of pain, dulled and 
then sharp, as consciousness returns. 

That impression of the anaesthetic 
persisted for days — the feehng of dull 
stupor, cut across with sudden, sharp 
stabs of pain as realization came fit- 
fully. It is a merciful result of such a 
blow that the stupor prevails. 

Then, all at once, a clear thought 

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came to me : "Now she is with God. 
Now she knows what we two have so 
often wondered about.** 

I was overpowered by the wonder, 
the beauty, and the glory of that 
thought. I rose and stood by the 
inner door. Suddenly, it seemed to 
me that Margaret was with me. She 
seemed to take my hand and draw me 
up, a step higher, while she stood close 
to me, a little higher, still holding my 
hand. 

Then it seemed as if, while we stood 
thus together, a great brilliant sun 
rose from the horizon, with rays 
spreading to the zenith, while an in- 
effable glory spread over the world. 

I do not know how long we stood. It 
was so wonderful that I found myself 
smiling, though I stood there, at last, 
alone. 

"She is not dead,** I said to myself. 
"She is more vitally, strongly alive 
than ever before, and she is with God. 
She is happy." 

The beauty and glory of that experi- 
ence stayed with me. It left an ex- 

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CONSOLATION 



altation that lasted for months. It 
left, also, a deep conviction that 
Margaret was in a realm of love and 
happiness and beauty, infinitely tran- 
scending ours. 

Because I am not a spiritualist, and 
would not seek or credit any of their 
"communications," I want to make it 
plain that there was no appearance, 
no voice, no touch, no thrill of contact. 
There was no illusion. The experience 
did not seem in the least supernatural, 
but entirely natural. It seemed to be 
of the texture of thought, as if I had a 
strong thought of her being with me. 
It was a manifestation of her love, I 
feel sure. It gave me unspeakable 
comfort and assurance. 



II 

*When she comes home/ I thought, with 

throbbing heart 
That danced a measure to my mind's refrain. 
Again from out the door I leaned and looked 
Where she should come along the leafy lane. 
And then she came — I heard the measured 

sound 
Of slow, oncoming feet, whose heavy tread 
Seemed trampling out my life. I saw her face. 
Then through my brain a sudden numbness 

spread. 
The earth seemed spun away, the sun was 

gone. 
And time, and place and thought. There 

was no thing 
In all the universe, save one who lay 
So still and cold and white, un answering. 
Save by a graven smile, my broken moan. 
She had come home, yet there I knelt alone. 

Years ago I had written that poem, 
after reading Riley's "When She 
comes Home." Was it a prophecy ? 

It was some days before they brought 
her home from that distant state. It 
seemed like months. I must not dwell 
on the agony of those days, or any- 
thing they held for all of us. 

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CONSOLATION 



And then she came. I heard the measured 

sound 
Of slow, oncoming feet — 

I had looked forward, with a great 
eagerness, to seeing her again. I went 
into the room. There, amid a bower 
of flowers, dressed in glistening, deli- 
cate white, lay a beautiful girl. "So 
still and cold and white, unanswer- 
ing-'' 

I felt a distinct shock of disappoint- 
ment. This was not Margaret. There 
was some mistake, after all. But the 
clear-cut, cameo features were the 
same, the hair, the hands. I touched 
them. Who can forget that icy cold ! 
It was marble. It was not Margaret. 

I stood, disappointed and puzzled. 
She was not lying there. I was sure 
of it. She was alive, and was both 
with me and in heaven. The flood of 
triumphant conviction swept over me 
again. I looked about the room, in a 
kind of wonder at the funeral flowers 
— for her, who was not dead ! There 
were pallid white roses. But among 

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them were some splendid rich red 
roses, full of life and vigor. Yes, they 
were suitable. And there were her 
favorite pink ones. Then my eye 
caught a great wreath of sweet peas, 
white, rose-pink, and lavender. It 
seemed to express my thought of her 
present life and surroundings. I 
caught it up and laid it over the feet 
of the beautiful, still figure. 

Later in the day someone came and 
spoke to me about a dress — a black 
dress. The thought filled me with 
horror. Black ! They wear black for 
the dead. She was not dead. To 
wear black would seem to proclaim 
her dead. I showed them the wreath. 
"If it were possible, I should Hke to 
wear white, embroidered with rose and 
lavender, and threads of gold, like 
light," I said. "That is the glorious 
way I think of her." But I felt that 
no one could understand. 

They spoke of cards, black-edged, 
and of kerchiefs, black-edged. It 
seemed childish to me, even though 

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CONSOLATION 



one were dead. How wide should the 
border be, to express one's grief? It 
would be all black, would it not ? But 
it would seem to say that she was 
dead. I could not bear it, and ordered 
only white. 

Another day passed while the beauti- 
ful form lay among the flowers. I 
need not tell anyone who has experi- 
enced it, what those days were to the 
grief-stricken household. 

Then the time came when we stood 
on the hillside, while light snowflakes 
fell, beside the open grave. It almost 
seemed true, then, what they all said. 
Dazed, in bewilderment and dumb 
pain, I saw the blanket of roses laid 
over the grave. But as we turned 
heavily away, I knew that Margaret 
was with us. 

As we entered the door of the home 
there came that piercing, crushing 
thought that she would never come 
back, as she had before. But she was 
alive. She was "just away," as she 
had been while on the visit, as her 

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CONSOLATION 



sister had been at school. Farther? 
No, nearer, very near. I was sure of 
it. And we would be going to her. 

From that time I have looked for- 
ward to that meeting, and I can hardly 
wait. 



Ill 

It was a comfort, that first night, to 
feel that she was with my father and 
those others we loved. There comes 
to us all at such times, at first, and 
especially at night, an overwhelming, 
instinctive fear of the loneliness and 
darkness and cold. It is as if those 
who have gone from us had set forth 
alone, in a tiny boat, upon a misty sea. 

Are they frightened ? Are they 
lonely ? Are they cold ? We can 
think and feel only in terms of the 
senses, and we torture ourselves with 
these unreasoning thoughts. We try 
to reach out human hands of helpful- 
ness to them; and then we realize, 
with relief, that others, such as they 
are, can touch and help them, when 
we cannot. 

The thought makes the flesh seem 
unreal. It makes God seem more real. 
We are turned back on the thought of 
God, and of His promises. The 
Twenty-third Psalm is a refuge. We 
sink into the comfort of the thought, 

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CONSOLATION 



"Underneath are the Everlasting 
Arms." We hold to the promise of 
Christ, "Lo, I am with you alway." 
It is unspeakably comforting to real- 
ize that "If I take the wings of the 
morning and dwell in the uttermost 
parts of the sea, even there shall Thy 
hand lead me, and Thy right hand 
shall hold me." 

Why, they could not be away from 
Him anywhere in the universe. They 
could not grope a single step in dark- 
ness or bewilderment. 

Then I began to realize that we are 
just as entirely dependent on God, 
while in the flesh, as we are after we 
leave it. How helpless are mortals, 
before the power of the aroused ele- 
ments, in flood or fire, earthquake or 
hurricane ! How helpless in pesti- 
lence ! How little human hands can do 
to protect us ! And we are as helpless 
to provide for our needs, if provision is 
not made first by Nature. I realized 
how God's care anticipates our human 
needs, provides light for the eye, 
sound for the ear, adjusts our physical 

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frame to the pressure of the atmos- 
phere, maintains the thermo-equilib- 
rium of the body, these and thousands 
of other provisions. 

And does He not provide as gener- 
ously for our souls, even while they are 
imprisoned in the flesh ? In how many 
ways does He minister to the soul — 
through the eye, the ear, the intellect, 
and by spiritual communion. 

The study, not only of the human 
body and mind, but also of physical 
nature, convinces one of open heart of 
the care of God. " Consider the lilies 
of the field.'* " Behold the fowls of the 
air — Your heavenly Father feedeth 
them." 

Many a time, since then, have I 
stood, as the golden sunset deepened 
into twilight, and listened to the 
robins singing their happy vespers 
among the orchard trees. As their 
song sank to a soft twitter, blending 
with the contented hum of insects 
and the far-off, peaceful sounds of 
flock and herd, there has swept over 
me an overwhelming consciousness of 

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CONSOLATION 



the care of the All-Father for His 
creatures. 

Something of this came to me that 
first night, and I prayed for her who 
had gone out into what seemed at 
first to be the Great Darkness. It was 
not that she needed my prayers, for 
her faith was as deep as mine; but 
that seemed the only way I could bear 
her company. Gradually the darkness 
became luminous, and the horror of 
cold and loneliness melted away in the 
warm consciousness of the love and 
light of God. 

The next day a friend brought me a 
copy of Gladstone's beautiful prayer. 
It was so comforting that I want to 
give it to others. 

"O God, the God of the spirits of all 
flesh, in Whose embrace all creatures 
live, in whatsoever world or condition 
they be ; I beseech Thee for her whose 
name and dwelling-place and every 
need Thou knowest. 

"Lord, vouchsafe her light and rest, 
peace and refreshment, joy and con- 

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solation, in Paradise, in the compan- 
ionship of saints, in the presence of 
Christ, in the ample folds of Thy great 
love. Grant that her life (so troubled 
here) may unfold itself in Thy sight 
and find a sweet employment in the 
spacious fields of eternity. If she 
hath ever been hurt or maimed by any 
unhappy word or deed of mine, I pray 
Thee, of Thy great pity, to heal and 
restore her, that she may serve Thee 
without hindrance. 

"Tell her, O gracious Lord, if it may 
be, how much I love her and miss her 
and long to see her again ; and, if there 
be ways in which she may come, 
vouchsafe her to me as a guide and 
guard, and grant us a sense of her 
nearness, in such degree as Thy laws 
permit. 

*'If in aught I can minister to her 
peace, be pleased, of Thy love, to let 
this be ; and mercifully keep me from 
every act which may deprive me of the 
sight of her as soon as our trial time is 
over, or mar the fullness of our joy 
when the end of the days hath come. 

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CONSOLATION 



"Pardon, O gracious Lord and 
Father, whatsoever is amiss in this 
my prayer, and let Thy will be done ; 
for my will is blind and erring, but 
Thine is able to do exceeding abun- 
dantly above all that we ask or think ; 
through Jesus Christ our Lord. 
Amen/' 

"Light and rest, peace and refresh- 
ment, joy and consolation." What 
could I pray for her that she would 
not have ? 

I prayed God to give her all these, 
and some special, shining joy, because 
of her mother's prayer. 

I prayed for Him to give her my 
love, and to tell her how deeply we 
missed her; for, though I lifted my 
thought to her constantly, I felt that 
she was more sure to receive the mes- 
sage in that way. 

I prayed, too, that I might have 
communion with her, and that my 
thought might go to her. I feel now 
that it does. 

And then I taught the children to 

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pray — "Please, God, give her our 
love." 

But most of all I prayed that she 
might be kept as close to Christ as 
possible. That means all safety, all 
care, all beatitude. 



i8 



IV 

The pink roses left in the home 
breathed of her. While they lasted 
they gave me a kind of faint happi- 
ness. When they were gone, I 
brought more to put by her picture 
and in her room. She seemed to be 
there, in a way. But when I went 
back to the cemetery I felt she was 
not there. There was no satisfaction 
in going, or in taking flowers. It 
seemed better to put them in her 
room, as if she would know. 

Her room, all rose-pink and white, 
had been closed. When the moon- 
light shone in through the white cur- 
tains, the room was filled with a 
heavenly radiance. I took the chil- 
dren in and we sat and talked about 
her and I told them of my happy con- 
victions. It comforted them as well 
as me. 

Some weeks later I took her room for 
mine, seeming thus to be nearer to 
her. Standing before her mirror I 
thought, how often^ there, had 

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"glowed the clear perfection of her 
face.'* It seemed as if she must enter 
through that mirrored door, and smile 
over my shoulder. 

The feeling persisted that she would 
be returning at any time, and I left 
some of her things in drawers and 
closet. For a long time I would forget, 
momentarily, that she was not away 
on a visit. "She will need this space 
for her things when she comes back," 
I found myself thinking. And then 
the realization came afresh. 

We had read much together. For 
many months, if I read something she 
would like, I would think "I must re- 
member this, and tell her when she 
comes back." 

Everything in the home spoke of her. 
We depended much on her taste and 
her selection. She liked this picture 
to hang here, that vase to stand there. 
We tried to keep everything as she 
liked it. Our lives and our thought 
had been interwoven, and we had had 
much in common. It seemed to me 
that now, in a peculiar way, I had 

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come to see with her eyes. As I un- 
folded the delicate gowns she had 
worn, I could not help but think, 
**How coarse and common these must 
seem to her, compared to the glorious 
raiment she can choose and fashion 
now.'* Suddenly I had a thought, 
almost a touch, of filmy garments, 
thin and fine, not woven, but of the 
texture of a flower petal. How coarse 
the finest fabric is compared to that ! 

Putting away her trinkets, I thought 
what childish toys they must seem to 
her now, compared with the wonders 
of heaven. But I laid my treasures 
away with reverent care, for they were 
all I had, and inexpressibly dear. The 
thought was satisfying, rather than 
disquieting, for it left a stronger im- 
pression of her exalted state, and 
made me seem more attuned to her 
spirit. 

I felt this, too, when I noticed sud- 
denly the unusual effect of sad or 
minor strains on my ear. I used to 
love such harmonies, and they are 
generally supposed to be peculiarly 

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acceptable to those in sorrow. Now 
they smote on my ear as gratingly as 
a discord. I realized that this was 
not the kind of music that Margaret 
was hearing. It should be happy and 
triumphant. 

I saw the grime and dirt of the city 
with new vision, and with an over- 
powering thought of the immaculate 
purity of those streets "like unto 
molten glass," and of the incorruptible 
beauty of that fair country. It was 
good to think of her there. 

When illness came, or troubles or 
worries of those dear to her, I was glad 
to think she missed them. 

One near to her spoke with grief of 
the pang it gave to see other young 
girls laughing and gay, and to think 
that she had been cut off at the begin- 
ning of life, without a chance to taste 
its happiness. The happiness of 
mortals ! I could not give any of 
them my conception of her tran- 
scendent happiness. 

Richter's "Death of an Angel" 
came back to me, and his conception 

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of the amaze of the angel at the pains 
all mortals suffer daily. When I saw 
fair young women, fading under 
family cares, I thought what a blight 
illness or trouble would have been to 
her, so delicately moulded. 

Someone laid before me that ex- 
quisite poem of Richard Watson 
Gilder, " Call me not Dead." It came 
to me with new meaning : — 

Call me not dead when I, indeed, have gone 
Into the company of the ever-living, 
High and most glorious poets. Let thanks- 
giving 
Rather be made. Say : "He at last hath won 
Rest and release, converse supreme and wise, 
Music and song and light of immortal faces ; 
To-day, perhaps, wandering in starry places, 
He hath met Keats, and known him by his 

eyes. 
To-morrow (who can say) Shakespeare may 

pass. 
And our lost friend just catch one syllable 
Of that three-centuried wit that kept so well ; 
Or Milton ; or Dante, looking on the grass, 
Thinking of Beatrice, and listening still 
To chanted hymns that sound from the heav- 
enly hill." 

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I had thought of her meeting others. 
Perhaps, she, too, had met Keats, and 
others of those beautiful spirits, gone 
from us, whose books she had loved to 
read, those masters of music and 
painting that she enjoyed most. It 
was a comfort to know that she had 
always delighted in new places, and 
in making new friends. I pictured her 
amid groups and companies, amid 
love and light and harmonies of won- 
derful music. I could see her, with 
her bright sparkle and vivacity, con- 
versing with these new friends. How 
she would enjoy them; and, I could 
not help but think, how they would 
enjoy her ! 

Then I began to think of her, with a 
most persistent imagining, as moving 
in some free swift happy motion, al- 
most as if swept along by light clouds, 
or by electric currents. Not with the 
old idea of wings ! As I saw her, in 
thought, she was always smiling, al- 
most always laughing, with that light, 
joyous laugh of hers. And whenever I 
lifted my eyes it seemed that, framed 

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amid the trees, wreathed in rainbow 
colors, there was a vanishing vision of 
her smiling face. 

It took nothing from my comfort to 
think that memory and imagination 
each had their part in this strong 
visualizing. Accustomed to analyze 
thought, I was aware of a new, strong 
element, that I believed to be divine. 



For months I seemed held on the peak 
of that wonderful experience. It was 
well, because the family had looked to 
me for comfort, and I could not fail 
them. 

Nothing but such a lifting up of the 
spirit could have made it possible to 
bear the crushing sense of loss that 
became heavier with each day of reali- 
zation. More and more came the 
awakening to pain and bereavement, 
and then set in the inevitable physical 
reaction after such a shock, and after 
such spiritual exaltation. But, even 
then, the remembrance of that experi- 
ence was sustaining and assuring, as 
it still is. 

Week after week, as my strength 
slowly ebbed, the demands of daily 
physical life seemed harder to bear. 
From the first moment of shock I had 
had a feeling that my tree of life had 
been uprooted and overturned, and 
its branches laid in the dust. It 
seemed to me that it would never take 

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root in this world again, that all my 
life was now in the spiritual world. 
This life seemed like a dream. This 
world appeared to be a fading illusion. 
Only eternity seemed sure, safe, secure, 
real. 

It seemed, after such an uprooting, 
that nothing could ever hurt or matter 
quite so much again. Catastrophe 
had descended upon us so suddenly, 
so without warning. It might come 
again, at any moment. How futile to 
plan for our future, or for the future of 
our other children. I stopped plan- 
ning. 

When I saw a mother with a little 
daughter, on the street, the thought 
involuntarily came to me, ''If the 
child grows upy what a joy she will 
be"; or, "Does the mother realize 
that her child may not grow up?" 
It was months before this morbid 
feeling in regard to this life faded 
away, and was gradually replaced by 
a normal one. 

This was easier to fight because I 
realized that it was morbid. For the 



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sake of my family and friends, I set 
to work to overcome it, using the 
simple, healing agencies at hand — 
fresh air, sunshine, daily work and 
rest, cheerful companionships. The 
constant requirements of my family, 
and my social welfare work, begun 
years ago, were most beneficial. But 
with all these I could not have con- 
quered if my life-time faith had not 
been wholesome, serene, and strong. 
Happily it barred out the old dark 
belief that death is visited upon us by 
the will of God. Believing that His 
will is health and life, " more abundant 
life," there was no struggle for resig- 
nation, no wondering doubts of God*s 
love and goodness. 
I have not yet spoken of a strange 
accompaniment to my great experi- 
ence that gave me exceeding strength 
and comfort. It began that first day 
and lasted through several months. 
It came as an overwhelming flood of 
recollections of every word I had ever 
read about eternal life, about the 
realities of heaven and the "spiritual 

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body." I was astonished by their 
vividness. Promises and prophecies 
of scripture literally glowed before me 
in letters of light. The old hymns and 
songs shouted to me out of the silence. 
Like a chime of temple bells they rang 
a paean of triumph — "There is no 
death." 

There has been need of all these as- 
surances, through these years. When 
the vision fades we must have a clear 
light by which to walk. We need, too, 
the fireside glow of dear, familiar as- 
sociations with the one we miss so 
sorely ; and, with us, there have been 
many things about the home that 
have helped to make her, not a mem- 
ory, but a living part of our daily 
lives. 

One such thing that she loved espe- 
cially is a beautiful weigela rosea on 
the lawn. We have guarded it with 
jealous care. When, in the spring, it is 
a great mass of rosy bloom, with bees 
and hummingbirds vibrant about it, 
a special gladness uplifts me. She 
loved it so that I feel she must some- 



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times be near it. And when, at inter- 
vals through the summer, after the 
blossom time has passed, a cluster or 
two of bloom appears on its boughs, I 
touch it to my face with a half-feeling 
that it bears a message from her. 

To me she seems to be immanent in 
all beauty, a living part of it — in 
sunset and moonlight, in garden walks 
and woodland paths. And in all holy 
communion, being nearer to God, I 
feel nearer to her, who is with God. 

Most of all the thought of her comes 
at sunrise, in the beauty of the quiet 
dawn, with the words of her best-loved 
hymn. 

The air is Mendelssohn's, but there 
always awakens, at the same time, 
the unearthly music of Grieg's " Morn- 
ing," that she often played. It, too, 
has in it the faint, growing light of the 
dawn, and the stir of awakening birds. 

Still, still with thee, when purple morning 

breaketh. 
When the bird waketh, and the shadows flee ; 
Fairer than morning, loveher than dayhght, 
Dawns the sweet consciousness, I am with 

thee. 

[30] 



CONSOLATION 



Alone with thee, amid the mystic shadows, 
The solemn hush of nature newly born ; 
Alone with thee in breathless adoration, 
In the calm dew and freshness of the morn. 

So shall it be at last, in that bright morning 
When the soul waketh and life's shadows flee ; 
Oh, in that hour, fairer than daylight dawning. 
Shall rise the glorious thought — I am with 
thee. 

To that dawning I lift my eyes. 



VI 

The eyes of the world are still lifted to 
the shining highway, arching above 
the Street of the Mourners, whereon 
they go whose dead fell gloriously. 

A great light beats upon them. They 
march, with floating banners, to the 
sound of drums, and the trumpets 
play martial airs before them. 

There arises to them the chant of the 
nations : " Be proud and do not 
mourn, O ye, whose dead fell glori- 
ously, dying for humanity, for liberty, 
for righteousness.'* 

Those upon whom the great light 
beats lift their heads and smile wanly. 
There is strength in the voice of the 
nations, but there is no consolation. 
They whisper to each other, stretch- 
ing out empty hands — 

"We want to see them again!" 

In the long, dark Street of the 
Mourners, under the arch of the 
shining highway, flows a sombre pro- 

[32 1 



CONSOLATION 



cession. Slowly, with muffled dirges, 
it winds along, as it has wound since 
the beginning of time. 

These are they who share the com- 
mon sorrow of mankind. No glory 
lightens their gloom. No grateful 
hymn of the nations is chanted for 
them. They have no comfort in the 
thought that either country or hu- 
manity was served by the death of 
those they mourn. No one was saved 
or bettered by that death, which fol- 
lowed disease or accident or mortal 
weakness. Only the sum of the 
world's sorrow was increased, the 
weight of humanity's misery was 
made heavier. 

And ah, that every one who is born 
must die, must break the ties of hu- 
man kindred, and be mourned ! From 
the death of Abel until now, how long 
is that sombre procession of mourners ! 
What lamentations for the dead have 
arisen from it, in one continuous wail, 
from that cry of the first bereft, still 
shrilling above the other sounds of 
the world ! 



[33] 



CONSOLATION 



Listen ! What are the words that 
sound above all others ? 

" We want to see them again! " 

Nothing else will satisfy or console. 
Some heap up honors, rearing shafts 
and memorials to their name. Some 
seek forgetfulness in other scenes. 
Some live in memories of what has 
been. Others endeavor to rend, with 
mortal hands, the veil before the 
spirit world, seeking for voices and 
appearances. But all of these are 
mocking or vain. Nothing really 
consoles except the hope that our dead 
will some time be given back to us, 
and that we shall see and hold them 
once more. 

There is only One who can promise 
this, the Lord of Life Himself. He 
has given the promise of life ever- 
lasting, and after Him have testified 
His apostles. His martyrs. His min- 
isters, and His poets, many to whom in 
these latter days He has spoken some 
word or syllable. 

[34] 



CONSOLATION 



Likewise, to every heart that will 
hear. He speaks the assurance of im- 
mortality. 

And all of these, standing in the sun- 
light, with shining faces and songs on 
their lips, cry out to us, — 

"Ye shall see them again!" 



4* 



McGRATH-SHERRILL PRESS 
BOSTON 



